


Fantasy Gold

by ziusura



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Roleplay, sex in the throne room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 19:26:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4973242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziusura/pseuds/ziusura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian finds out about one of Varaad's teenage fantasies and puts that knowledge into action.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fantasy Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote myself adaar/dorian smut for my bday, though the build-up's a bit too long for this to be considered pwp. It's pwp with feelings and a look into Varaad's favorite book series?
> 
> The sex in the throne/judgement room takes place in the empty throne room and there isn't an exhibition kink jsyk. They do have erections in the courtyard where other people are though, if that's gonna squick you out. There's a little one comment thing about prostitution in the roleplay situation, but it's not carried through for more than that one sentence.

It was Dorian that started it—a poorly timed offhanded comment while trudging through knee-high swamp water in the Exalted Plains. 

“You know Bull, I’ve had many drinks, but I’ve never had that Maraas-lok swill.”

There was a grunt behind Varaad then—sounded like Blackwall heaving himself and his armor up some rocks. 

“You’ll be better off not having it,” Blackwall said, and Varaad had to agree. It was…interesting, but Varaad found himself avoiding the tavern in Skyhold, or at least the lower floor, for some time after they’d killed another high dragon. 

Dorian made a startled noise. “ _You’ve_ had it?” he asked, with incredulity coloring his voice, and Varaad had to agree with that too. He thought he, and maybe Krem, were the only ones to have that garbage foisted onto them. 

“Not by choice, I can promise you,” Blackwall said, distaste clear in his tone. 

There’s a sudden splash and a grinding clang of armor that Varaad assumed meant someone stepped into a particularly deep puddle, or someone was pushed, and Bull burst into laughter. 

“Man, you humans are weak. The Boss here—” and there was an unexpected spray of cold swamp water flung up Varaad’s formerly dry back and ass “—drank it without any complaints.” 

Varaad made a noise of assent, entirely glad that Bull could not see the horrified look on his face because he may have pushed through it, but there was no way he wanted it anywhere near his mouth again. 

“Well now I _have_ to have it,” Dorian said. “I won’t be the only one that hasn’t had a drink that—how did you say it—’Puts chest on my chest.’”

Bull laughed again. “It’s for special events, like killing a dragon, whatever story is behind Blackwall drinking it—which you’ll have to tell me—killing a dragon, you and Boss getting hitched—”

“—Or killing a dragon?” Dorian interrupted, his voice with that teasing facetious lilt to it. Varaad was sure if he’d turned around Dorian would have a smirk on his face, maybe the one that made Varaad’s gut churn in anticipation. 

“Yeah, you’ve got the idea.” 

“Well, I think we’ve found our special event then,” Dorian said, and then he sloshed and walked his way closer to Varaad. 

He placed a hand on Varaad’s lower back, just under his quiver, and Varaad stopped and turned just slightly so that he could look at him. Dorian was covered in swamp water and Gurgut blood, but the look he shot through his eyelashes—the one that said that he would make sure Varaad got something for his troubles—still made Varaad’s heart beat just a bit faster. 

“So, what do you think, ‘Boss?’” Dorian asked softly, just for Varaad, and placed a soft hand against Varaad’s chest. 

Varaad swallowed, only half to remember that his throat muscles weren’t numb from Maraas-lok yet, and looked at Bull’s smirking face, then back to Dorian’s, at Blackwall’s gently pleading face, and then back to Dorian’s eyes. It felt like he repeated the movement another three or four times before he sighed and said, “We’ll figure something out after we get the snowy wyvern heart.” 

Dorian slid his hand up behind Varaad’s neck to pull him down for a quick peck. Well pecks. Multiple. 

It was just their luck that there was a high dragon just around the corner from Vivienne’s wyvern. 

And then there they were, scrubbed nearly raw to get the stench of rot and dragon off themselves, and mostly drunk in the tavern at Skyhold, all looking at Varaad like vultures on carrion. Even Blackwall had a curious gleam in his eye, and he was supposed to be the most likely to offer Varaad an out. 

“C’mon, Boss!” Bull begged. “I told you about the dragon thing.” 

Varaad sunk lower into the table, but as big as he was the mostly still full tankard of Maraas-lok did nothing to hide his red cheeks and he was still bigger than the humans at the table. 

“You offered it!” Varaad said at the tankard, and Bull threw his head back in a laugh that shook the entire table. 

It wasn’t that he was ashamed to admit his more embarrassing teenage experiences, well no, he was embarrassed as hell, but once Bull told the story of sneaking out of some Dowager’s daughter’s pathetically small bedroom window after sleeping with both of them and the husband (not at once), all while the dog kept snapping at his goods, and Blackwall told an incredibly bawdy story about three tavern girls and some shit dwarven ale, Varaad felt unexpectedly…boring and inexperienced in comparison. 

Dorian—the only one of them besides Bull to actually drink the maraas-lok without caution—leaned, or rather fell, into Varaad’s shoulder, and slid one warm hand up Varaad’s inner thigh—a pretty common place for it when they weren’t sappily holding hands under the table.

“Semantics, I’m sure,” he said, and to both Varaad’s pleasure and displeasure, the hand slid higher than it usually did, up to the crease of his thigh and groin. Varaad took a sip of his drink to hide how he’d startled, then predictably nearly coughed it right back up when it hit his mind that, oh yeah, this wasn’t shitty tavern ale. 

In an unexpectedly smooth motion for how drunk he was, Dorian caught the opposite side of Varaad’s face with his free hand, and leaned up with just the slightest movement to press his lips against Varaad’s cheek, probably where it was reddest. 

“Amatus,” he whispered against Varaad’s skin, and pulled back just enough to look up through his eyelashes—and yeah, Dorian knew exactly what kind of effect that had on Varaad because he coupled it with a slight squeeze to Varaad’s thigh. “For me at least?”

Varaad coughed for a different reason then, and looked out the side of his eye. Bull’s face was bloated out like he was trying not to laugh, and Blackwall was staring hard at the table. Dorian successfully using his gentlemanly wiles was apparently a source of entertainment for them, but then again so was Varaad embarrassing Dorian with his feelings at times Dorian considered inappropriate. 

“I, uh,” Varaad started, and the table shifted to a serious focus—well as serious as it could be with how tanked most of them were. He slid his hand over the hand on his thigh and hooked his fingers under Dorian’s, and Dorian responded by stroking his thumb over Varaad’s lower lip. “I was called ‘Sticky’ all through my teenage years because I borrowed one of the other merc’s ‘ _Sword and Throne_ ’ book and when I gave it back the pages where Abram taught Prince Derrick how to properly use a sword were uh, stuck together.” 

Just like for the other stories, the table burst into laughter and Bull’s knee hit the underside of the table. Dorian patted Varaad’s somehow even warmer cheeks once or twice, and then slid his hand to join the other on Varaad’s thigh.

“Well, that scene was quite homoerotic,” Dorian said with as straight a face he could manage—a handsome smirk with amusement crinkling his eyes. He wasn’t comparing it to Varric’s books though, which was an improvement on how much Dorian teased him for loving that series.  


“Shit, Boss, how’d you shake that one off?” Bull asked between pointed airy little breaths like he was trying to keep himself from laughing again.  


“I, uh, didn’t,” Varaad said, and he scratched the back of his neck with his free hand and looked up at the wooden slats of the floor above, because if he didn’t he might decide taking another drink was a good alternative to covering his embarrassment. “I joined the Valo-Kas at twenty-five and that’s when I escaped the nickname.”   


The table laughed again, and this time Varaad joined in. These guys were just as old as he was, older in Blackwall’s case, and they had just as many embarrassing stories; they didn’t judge. 

“We used those books as table wedges in the Orlesian army.”   


Well, they judged his taste in books. 

:::

“Dorian?” Varaad called into his apparently empty room.   


Dorian had asked for Varaad to meet him there when they’d gotten back to Skyhold after rescuing the miners from the red templars, but Dorian wasn’t there. 

That wasn’t unusual all in itself; Dorian liked to have Varaad watch his entrances, each one more ridiculous and naked than the last, but Varaad loved it. Plus it served as a good way to tell if Dorian’s ‘meetings’ meant a talk or sex—if it was a talk he’d usually already be there. 

Varaad sat back on his bed, intending to make himself comfortable, when he heard the crinkle of parchment under his thigh. This, however, was quite unusual, and Varaad took no time to dig out the folded parchment and begin to read. 

> _Varaad,_
> 
> _Your swordsmanship is abysmal. I feared for your life when you were fighting Lord Hennywen, and I could hardly focus on my own fight while worrying for yours. How can you expect to lead a country if you can’t protect your own life? It’s foolishness to have never learned the proper forms, and as the man meant to protect you I cannot stand by it._
> 
> _Meet me in the courtyard for lessons. If your sword master won’t train you, I will._
> 
> _\- Dorian_
> 
> _PS I know it’s not the desk but I feared you’d miss this if it was on that messy, parchment strewn table you call a workspace._

Varaad’s hands shook. Lord Hennywen was Prince Derrick’s main antagonist and would’ve been the clue to anyone else for what Dorian had been speaking of, but Varaad recognized the very first line. All but the names and the post script were direct from ‘ _Sword and Throne’_  and Varaad had thumbed open to that page many times in his youth—many times in his adulthood too when he was feeling indulgent—and like it did when he was a teenager, just seeing the letter made blood rush to his groin, and his heart beat just a little faster.

His mind was so full of mush and excited question marks that he didn’t remember the walk from his room to the courtyard. Varaad found himself there suddenly, up against the fence of one of the smaller side sparring rings where Dorian was, like he had a Dorian beacon inside him. 

Dorian didn’t see him at first, and Varaad took the time to admire Dorian’s fencing form. He didn’t know the first thing about fencing, but Dorian was agile and smooth, and the movements flowed and snapped into one another lovelily, though there was really nothing as beautiful as Dorian with his staff. Dorian fencing could take third in line, just after the fond, loving look Dorian always gave Varaad after he came. 

Varaad must have made a noise, because Dorian turned around very suddenly. If it’d been anyone else he might have startled, but Dorian didn’t. He just adjusted his grip on his épée and sauntered over. 

Dorian leaned against the bit of fence next to Varaad, his face so close that Varaad could smell Dorian’s hair product, and he knew if he moved the slightest bit down Dorian would lift up and kiss him. 

“Prince Derrick,” Dorian said softly, his hand a faint pressure against Varaad’s arm. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t. 

“Dorian,” Varaad breathed, and just for a second the grin on Dorian’s face shifted to something more familiar—a smirk so cocky and overly exaggerated that it could only belong on Dorian’s face. 

“Why, Prince Derrick, I’m not Dorian. I’m your trusted knight Abram.”

Varaad swallowed audibly, and he felt like the look he was giving Dorian—no, _Abram_ —was so obviously desperate. But Varaad very nearly had this scene imprinted on the back of his eyelids, and he could fake it even if he was floundering under his feelings.

“Abram, I’ve taken offense to your letter,” Varaad said. Prince Derrick stood tall and angry at this point, mad that Abram would imply that he’d do anything that wasn’t in the best interest of his kingdom. Varaad shifted as best he could, standing his full Qunari height and throwing his shoulders back like he meant business. It felt strange on himself, but Dorian behind Abram’s eyes flared with interest.   


Abram removed his hand from Varaad and forced it straight down at his side. “I only spoke the truth, my prince.” 

Varaad knew it was coming but still he subconsciously licked his lips at the title, it affecting him more than it did Prince Derrick, who’d heard it all his life. Dorian had taken the time to memorize the scene for him, for Varaad, and if that didn’t take ahold of Varaad’s heart he didn’t know what would. 

“I would be surprised if there were any truths at all in that letter,” Varaad spat out.   


Abram’s eyes flashed with anger, and in an instance he had dropped his épée and fisted Varaad’s collar, pulling him down to his eye level. Varaad’s hand flung out to the fence to balance himself. “You think I do not care for you? You think I do not worry?” 

There was more Dorian in Abram’s voice then, the looks and softness in present in his eyes that Dorian had when he’d thought he lost Varaad to the fade at Adamant. Varaad’s hands tensed against the rough wooden fence.

“Your kingdom needs you and I ne—” Abram’s voice cracked, and he looked away. The fence dug near painfully into Varaad’s thighs, but he could last it for the look Abram gave him when they made eye contact again.  “And I need to teach you proper form.” 

Varaad shuddered the same way Prince Derrick had in the book. The first time he read this scene, the time he’d masturbated to it and stuck the pages of his friend’s book together, he’d thought they were about to kiss here—Abram’s fists in Prince Derrick’s shirt and Prince Derrick swimming in the force of Abram’s feelings. He’d had a crush on Abram, looking back, but now that Abram was Dorian, someone he loved wholly, this scene was even worse. 

Varaad’s lips trembled. “I,” he croaked out, but his throat was so dry. Prince Derrick was supposed to say more here, but Varaad couldn’t force it out. 

Abram’s hands had become Dorian’s, gentle and soft and stroking Varaad’s bare throat above his collar in soothing motions. 

“Then you will learn from me,” Abram said, skipping Varaad’s line entirely. He let go of Varaad’s shirt without smoothing out the collar, and Varaad overbalanced slightly without Abram directly in front of him. Abram caught him and righted him, when he should’ve been bending down to pick up his sword—épée, but Varaad couldn’t complain about the inaccuracy; this was just as much Dorian and Varaad as it was Abram and Prince Derrick. 

“Should we not spar first, see who should learn from who?” Varaad asked. 

It was all Dorian who responded. He stood up with the épée and a quirk of his lips that Abram wouldn’t, and rested a hand on Varaad’s chest like he knew it belonged there. 

“Since I only know how to fence and I have no idea if you learned the sword along with the bow and arrow, I don’t think it would do for Abram to lose,” Dorian said. He went up on his tip toes to nose at Varaad’s lips, but didn’t move the extra inch to touch them with his own mouth. It felt right for Varaad and Dorian, but it didn’t for Prince Derrick and Abram. 

Dorian was right, though it was disappointing. There was nothing like their sword fight—the tense back and forth between Abram and Prince Derrick with the fenced in ring being their entire world. Prince Derrick so determined to prove his worth and Abram needing to prove how much he valued the prince had been a theme in many of Varaad’s earliest relationships, though it was often Varaad who was Abram then. Their fight ended with Abram over Prince Derrick, sweat and rain alike running down Abram’s face and onto the prince’s while they both panted in unison; Abram had won. 

Varaad pulled back from Dorian and stepped over the fence and into the ring as Dorian stripped off his tunic and left nothing but sweaty, distracting muscles for Varaad to attempt not to look at, but that was Abram as well. Prince Derrick didn’t have near as much trouble as Varaad did with attractive men standing half naked in front of him. 

“I can’t control weather so I’m afraid we’ll have to do this without the cliché rain,” Dorian said, and Varaad took his shirt off as well. Now that Varaad had experience fighting in soaked through shirts he often questioned the author’s motivations for having Abram and the prince remove their shirts since ‘it was sticking to me’ didn’t have as much hold.   


Dorian picked up the épée from where it was placed so he could remove his shirt without stabbing himself, and when he stood back up, strong but worn down, he was all Abram again. 

Abram stalked over to Varaad, where Prince Derrick was hunched over and feeling lost for having been defeated, and passed the épée to Varaad with the handle out. Once Varaad took the épée and slid his hand in the small human-hand sized space under the guard, Abram stood back on his heels with his chest out and hands behind his back like a mock-up of parade rest. 

“First position,” Abram said, and Varaad moved. The book hadn’t described first position, nor any of the others for that matter, but Varaad had learned sword basics even if the Tal-vashoth had taught him in a much more relaxed manner.   


Abram walked in a tight circle around him, his eyes sweeping over Varaad to pinpoint mistakes, and Dorian’s pausing over the stretch of Varaad’s shoulders and the strength of his arms. Varaad trembled with the effort of keeping still, especially with the hot burn of Dorian’s eyes on him. 

Abram walked behind him, and Varaad let his eyes fall shut; he knew what was coming next. Abram’s bare chest pressed against Varaad’s back, and the low grade arousal Varaad had been stewing in kicked up a notch—his cock started pressing against the front of his breeches. 

For all that Dorian complained about being cold in the south, he was always consistently hot against Varaad’s skin, burning like the fire he bent to his will in battle, burning like the heat Dorian put in his veins. 

Abram’s breath was warm and even against the skin between Varaad’s shoulder blades, and Varaad was caught between wanting to step away to keep from melting, and pushing closer. His hand trailed down Varaad’s shoulder and along his arm, tracing the muscle as it got closer and closer to where Varaad held the épée. 

Abram’s hand enclosed Varaad’s, and it was Dorian who snorted out a huff of laughter. “I might need a stool,” he said, and he nosed at Varaad’s armpit. Abram was supposed to have put his chin over Prince Derrick’s shoulder, and fully press himself up against the prince so they could move through the positions together, but Prince Derrick was currently seven feet tall, and Abram had no chance of reaching that. 

“No,” Varaad said, swallowing. “Prince Derrick is Qunari now.”   


He’d dreamed of it for years—wet dreams and domestic crush worthy dreams—where Abram and Varaad as Prince Derrick made love, fed each other fruit on a picnic, nursed each other back to health. He might as well indulge. 

Dorian kissed the soft area that gave way to the bottom of his armpit, and a took a deep breath. “Indeed he is,” Dorian said softly, and then he was pulling his face away and Abram was putting his free hand on Varaad’s opposite hip.  

“You aren’t holding your wrist high enough,” Abram said, and his fingers dipped beneath Varaad’s hand to adjust his grip on the épée. “And,” Abram continued, “your stance is too narrow, too easy to get off balance.” 

He showed that by tightening his grip on Varaad’s hip, and shoving one of his legs between Varaad’s. The movement pressed Abram’s hips flush against Varaad’s upper thighs, and Varaad nearly dropped the épée—Dorian was hard. 

Dorian pushed his face against Varaad’s spine, and Varaad’s head fell back, unable to support itself now that he knew. Varaad had thought Dorian was just doing this for him, for his own indulgence of a fantasy held dear to him, but he was aroused, he was enjoying this just as much as Varaad was. 

“Is this better?” Varaad asked, his voice breathy, and it was a wonder he still remembered the next bit of dialogue.   


The hand Dorian had on his hip slid up to Varaad’s chest, fingertips a hairs-width away from the edge of his nipple, and Dorian let out a harsh, wet breath against Varaad’s skin.  

“This sword is too small for you,” Dorian said, because it wasn’t a line Abram said during this scene, or any part of the book. 

His other hand started aimlessly wandering from Varaad’s wrist to his arm to his chest and then finally to tease the waistband of Varaad’s breeches. Varaad was sucking in breaths like they _had_ fought earlier, and Dorian’s were nearly just as fast. 

“I believe this one will suit you bet—” Dorian’s hand slid down lower, rolling the head of Varaad’s hard-on under his palm, and Varaad’s hips shot backwards into Dorian’s automatically. “— _Fasta vass_.”   


Varaad dropped the épée without realizing it, and used his sudden hand freedom to grab onto Dorian’s hands, not pushing them closer to their targets—just holding. He could feel Dorian’s heart beating fast against his back, and Varaad had no doubt Dorian could feel his too. 

“We can’t—not out here,” Dorian said with a frustrated groan. The courtyard wasn’t private; there were always people training out there so the fact that it was night wouldn’t help them, and even the side sparring rings like the one they were in were visible from many parts of Skyhold.  


It felt wrong to take this into Varaad’s bedroom though. The game had shifted; no longer were they Prince Derrick and Abram, but they weren’t Varaad and Dorian either. But Varaad had more than one fantasy concerning the series. 

“The throne room,” he panted out. “We should—on the throne.”   


Dorian’s laugh vibrated against Varaad’s ass. “Prince Varaad is quite kinky.” 

And there—that was it. Varaad was prince, like the quiet fantasies he’d kept private all his life, and Dorian…was still Dorian really. The game had only partially changed for Varaad, but for Dorian it had become all about Varaad. 

As late as it was, making sure the judgement room was clear and every door locked wasn’t too difficult. As hard as he was, it was time Varaad would’ve much rather spent on something else, but the thought of them being walked in on had him taking the time to double check. 

Varaad let Dorian lock the last few; he needed time to breath, to stare at the throne he’d sat in many times as the inquisitor. Now he’d be sitting in it as a prince. A Qunari prince. 

“If Sera picks these she’s getting an eyeful because I’m not inclined to stop,” Dorian said, sounding much closer than Varaad had placed him before, and Dorian’s hand came up to rest on Varaad’s spine, right in the middle of his back. He kissed Varaad’s bicep, then said softly, “Are you going to sit, Amatus?”   


Varaad licked his lips, leaned into the solidity and warmth Dorian’s hand gave him, then nodded his head. He just…never thought he’d be here, even in a fantasy. Humans didn’t like the idea of nonhuman royalty, something that’d crushed Varaad when the merc group he’d grown up in visited the first human town Varaad had been to and none of the human children wanted to pretend kings and queens with him. 

“You’re amazing, Dorian,” Varaad said, and Dorian laughed into Varaad’s shoulder.   


“I am, aren’t I.”   


Varaad took a deep breath and let his shoulders move into a position he thought a prince would carry. He walked to the throne with power, imagining thankful citizens and problems to be solved smiling and cheering him on at the sides. Instead of his usual Inquisitor slump, Prince Varaad sat in the position he imagined a prince or king would sit, like they had the weight of a kingdom on their shoulders and all the time to deal with it. 

Dorian stood at the edge of the steps leading to the throne, his eyes hooded and mouth parted and so turned on he had that sexy flush down his chest and across his shoulders. No one approaching the prince would be in such a state of undress and with their trousers tented out, but a Prince wouldn’t be in that state either, which Varaad very much was. 

Varaad gestured for Dorian to come forward with two fingers, and Dorian moved like he’d practiced walking through a room with a noble and a hard-on before. 

“Prince Varaad,” Dorian said with a deep bow and a flourish. “I’ve come to show my thanks,” he continued, and he dropped to his knees right there, palms spread hot and flat across Varaad’s thighs and his chest pressed in close between Varaad’s legs.   


“By paying with your body?” Varaad asked with a breathy laugh, and his hand cupped Dorian’s cheek.   


Dorian shot him a dirty look, and went to unfastening Varaad’s pants. “You come up with a reason for me to be on my knees in front of the prince on such short notice.” 

Varaad tilted his head like he imagined a prince in thought would, though Dorian nearly ruined it by sliding a hand into Varaad’s breeches to pull out his cock; princes didn’t moan mid thought in front of the court. 

“Reverence. You’re bowing.”   


“With the prince’s dick in my mouth.”   


Varaad’s thumb stroked over Dorian’s lips, his mustache tickling under Varaad’s thumbnail. “Well it’s not there yet.”

Which is of course when Dorian offered Varaad a smirk and swallowed Varaad down whole. He'd barely gotten his thumb out of the way in time—Dorian with a cock in front of him was a force to be reckoned with, and if it wasn’t in bad taste to say Varaad would’ve joked that he’d made a deal with a demon in the fade to get his skills. 

Varaad’s hands went to Dorian’s hair without asking his mind first, right when Dorian pulled up and tongued his slit in just the way that always made Varaad white out a bit. He was always too gentle a lover to pull or yank, but having something to hold onto—and something so soft and lovely at that—made the experience better, plus Dorian seemed to like it. 

Dorian sucked him down to the root and swallowed, and one of Varaad’s arms flung out to grasp at the side of the throne. His muscles tensed and shook and he thrashed about, but Dorian went on. 

There was a system to Dorian’s blow jobs, and Varaad was barely in the beginning part of it when he felt slick fingers gently rub against his asshole. Varaad laughed as best he could with his cock in a mouth and Dorian’s fingers at his ass; he hadn’t even noticed Dorian’s hands move away from his thighs, and definitely hadn’t noticed Dorian reach for wherever the oil had been hidden on him. 

“Expecting something?” Varaad asked, more air than voice.   


Dorian looked up through his eyelashes, the edges of his wide dilated eyes crinkling with a smile that couldn’t transfer to his mouth, and Varaad’s stomach swooped. He pulled off Varaad’s cock with a filthy slurp, and said, “I live to expect every wish of my prince.” 

The title hit him just as hard as it had outside in the courtyard, and Varaad shot forward and grasped at any part of Dorian he could reach. A dribble of pre-cum slid out Varaad’s cock and stuck to Dorian’s mustache, further messing up the careful grooming. Dorian made a show of licking his mustache, but deliberately avoided the pre-cum entirely just to watch Varaad squirm, and then took pity on Varaad and put his mouth around Varaad’s head once more.

The stretching went easy; it always did for Varaad even without the oral, though Varaad loved it in combination. Dorian was getting desperate—the fingers inside him were thrusting wildly, and Dorian was moaning more against his cock than he was sucking, but Varaad was just as bad. Dorian had a hand-shaped bruise on his shoulder from where Varaad was feeling it a little too much, and he wouldn’t be surprised if the throne wasn’t dinged up by his horns from all his thrashing. 

“Dorian,” Varaad moaned, “Dorian please.”   


Dorian gave Varaad’s dick one, no two, final licks like he couldn’t get enough of the taste, and pressed his face into Varaad’s hip. 

“Yeah,” was all Dorian said before he was standing and removing both their breeches (”Because a prince has people to remove his trousers, Varaad”).   


Dorian’s cock was engorged and so flushed Varaad was surprised he hadn’t gone off in his pants. Fuck, Varaad nearly had at just the sight of it. If Dorian fencing was number three on Varaad’s favorite things about Dorian list, Dorian’s cock had to be number four. It was a beautiful thing, curved and strong and jutting out elegantly from a mess of dark curls between his shapely thighs; it never failed to make Varaad’s mouth water, and it’d made Varaad finally understand why Dorian loved sucking Varaad’s cock so much.

They arranged themselves without thinking about it; one leg went up over Dorian’s shoulders, and the other around his hips for leverage. Typical and near expected. The throne under Varaad was an…honestly uncomfortable, addition, but neither of them would last long enough for it to matter. 

Dorian moaned deep and long at the entry, and Varaad echoed the sentiment. Varaad loved this moment, when he felt so full he’d burst and Dorian made a face that seemed like he was surprised by how good it felt, how amazing it was to be joined in this way. 

Varaad rolled his hips up, and Dorian gave an answering thrust—long and deep and just how Varaad liked it. They fell together in practiced movements, though it did take time for them to find the right angle to get Varaad’s prostate. 

Dorian was so lovely over him, eyes wide with that little crease between his brows, hair and mustache a mess with sweat dripping down the strands, and his face so full of pleasure and love that Varaad felt like he was drowning. How anyone could sleep with this man and not instantly fall in love was incredible, but Varaad was glad that he at least could show it. Show it with his hands rubbing circles on and grasping at Dorian’s face and ass; his lips on every part of Dorian he could reach, but mostly his mouth; his heel digging into the muscles in Dorian’s thighs, feeling them flex against with every thrust. 

“I love you so much,” Varaad said against Dorian’s mouth, and Dorian answered with a trembling sigh and a soft swear that gave away just how close Dorian was. “You’re amazing, so beautiful, and I’m so happy that you’re the man I’ve given my heart to.” 

Dorian tensed then, his jaw clenched tightly and his body pulled taut like a rope above Varaad, and Varaad held him through it, his eyes never leaving Dorian’s. 

“Varaad,” Dorian mouthed, his voice gone but his body telling, and Varaad’s heart swelled.   


It was almost a surprise when Varaad near instantly followed him over into orgasm; he’d been close but not close enough that he thought he’d finish just from Dorian saying his name, but he didn’t care. Not with this fantastic man in his arms. 

They met for another kiss, blissed out and trembling with aftershocks. Varaad could never get enough of Dorian's lips; they could be stuck on some island alone with the ability to escape only if Varaad stopped kissing him for one moment, and Varaad still wouldn't be able to pull himself away.

“I love you too,” Dorian said into his mouth, and Varaad tasted every one his words. There was everything in this moment.  


**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing about fencing can you tell. I also have a problem with having 4k words before I even hit the smut in what was supposed to be a pwp.
> 
> Feel free to ask/prompt me shit on [tumblr](http://stoneanddragons.tumblr.com).


End file.
